


and all my nights to come

by Amymel86



Series: nights not understood [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mutual Pining, OR IS IT?!?!, Political Marriage, Smut, making an heir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 18:31:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17085488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/pseuds/Amymel86
Summary: It’s all a sort of torture of delights – what he has here in her bed. She feels sogood… but what of Sansa? Is she simply enduring it? Could she find any pleasure in it at all? Does she want to?





	and all my nights to come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Titania_Queen_of_the_Fairies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Titania_Queen_of_the_Fairies/gifts).



> A little companion fic to The Breath Between Us Both especially for Tanya's birthday! Happy Birthday, my lovely!

When the realisation first hit him, Jon knew that he was a cursed man. He had been walking to her chambers at the time, on his way in the low flickering candle-light of the sconces mounted on the stone walls. He was to do his duty in their bid to further their House and put an heir in his wife’s belly. But then it had hit like a blast of cold air to the face; it was not a duty to him anymore. Jon stopped dead in his tracks, the scuff of his boots against the flagstone floor twinning with his huff of breath, the only sounds of the night.

He hadn’t made it to her bed that evening, claiming illness instead. In truth, he avoided her for a few days afterwards too. He needed time; time to make sense of the muddle in his mind.

Most might say that to find you now desire your own wife is a very fortunate thing. The joy in your bones and arousal in your mind and body both should be welcomed.

But this is _Sansa._

Sansa, who was once his sister. Now his wife. And now the woman who stirs his most carnal thoughts.

The Gods are mocking him.

He returned to her bed feeling a charlatan. Their coupling had always had an awkward edge to it. It was perfunctory. It was dutiful. But now – _oh now_ \- it is so, _so_ much worse because it couldn’t be further from duty at all to Jon.

It was love-making. Only it just _couldn’t_ be.

How can he make love to her when she’s most likely lying there, wishing for the activity to be done? Distracting her mind with the sweet kissing songs she used to dream of so long ago, her hands grasping at her sheets as he ruts his way to his end?

The Gods are indeed cruel. Jon has been given almost everything he’s ever wanted. But that _‘almost’_ is what he now longs for most.

Then, things started to change a little. Here and there. Sansa began watching him as he moved within her. He could feel her gentle gaze on him, skies of spring in her eyes. What was she thinking? What was she looking for? He dare not look to see.

Sansa has stopped using the sweet almond oil that Sam had supplied them. Not that she’d told him that. But the scent has been missing from her bed for nigh on a fortnight now, and yet their coupling is not hampered one bit. Should he allow to hope that it is no longer needed? Does she feel desire for him also?

Jon is acutely aware of every touch and movement when he lays with his wife. Her hands now prefer to rest on his sides instead of holding onto the sheets beneath them, her palms searing through his cotton undershirt down to the skin.

It takes every ounce of what little restraint Jon possesses not to kiss her fiercely, not to groan her name and move faster, harder, urge her long, long legs to wrap around him in a tight grip that he would revel in.

But he won’t do that. He can’t. Not when it could conjure memories unwanted.

And so, it continues, both agony and bliss.

Until one evening.

He thought he had been imagining it; the slight seeking rise of her hips. Pushing forward to meet with his thrusts each time. He ceased, pausing to look down at her and swallowing that slow rising hope back down his throat. Sansa turned to face away from him, the apple of her cheek colouring a honeyed rose sort of shade in the candlelight. “Are you alright?” he asked, like the many times he’s asked before.

She bit her bottom lip and nodded, her hands twitching at his flanks. He began to move again, keeping his eyes open this time, watching the pink of her tongue peek out demurely between her lips to wet them as he jostled her slightly with the movement. _Gods_ but he has a beautiful wife.

Her eyes are open but she dare not look up to him. They are both doing their parts of a delicate dance. Neither one wishing to misstep.

Jon lowers his face to the space by the crook of her neck, where her hair smells sweet like honeysuckle, and he can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Gently moving to hook his arms under her shoulders, Sansa’s hands fist in his shirt as he continues his slow thrusts.

It’s all a sort of torture of delights – what he has here in her bed. She feels so _good_ … but what of Sansa? Is she simply _enduring_ it? Could she find any pleasure in it at all? Does she want to?

A soft moan escapes her, and Jon’s hips pause once more. He does not attempt to look at her this time however, but her frame is suddenly tensed below him. Movement resumes and embers of excitement glow deep in his belly as Sansa relaxes back into his rhythm.

He’s almost positive that she’s wetter than she’s ever been, a thought that makes him groan into the angle of her jaw as he begins to find it harder to keep his thrusts slow and measured.

With a heart hammering in his chest, he is _sure_ now, sure that Sansa is moving along with him. He can feel her meeting him thrust for thrust, he can hear her becoming a little breathless. His own panted breath must be deafening against the shell of her ear, but he does not move away or attempt to temper it. Let her know how she affects him so.

Slowly, as delicately as he can, Jon brushes his lips to her neck. An experiment. A test. Sansa brushes a hand up and down his back. Jon thinks it may be in encouragement, so he tries again, a definite kiss this time instead of what could be misread as lips bumping against skin.

Sansa’s breath hitches, her legs curl around him and _squeeze_ his hips in the most delicious embrace. He can feel himself move faster, but he’s not wishing to race to the end just yet.

“Sansa,” he allows himself to groan into her dewy skin, his kisses slowly turning sloppy. When he feels her own lips press to his shoulder Jon almost suckles his way to her jaw before rearing up to look down upon her. “Is this alright?” he pauses to ask, tired of guessing, “will you let me… _love_ you?”

Those crystal blue eyes stare up at him, searching his face for a moment as parted lips release little pants of breath. “Yes,” Sansa whispers, “yes please, Jon.”

 _Perhaps the Gods are not so cruel after all,_ Jon muses when he finally takes her lips in that sweet kiss, Sansa’s fingers threading through his hair making gooseflesh trickle down his spine.

“Stay,” Sansa pushes him back a fraction to say, “after… stay the night here with me.”

Jon lowers himself to pluck more kisses from his wife’s lips. “Aye, I’ll stay tonight,” he rasps, voice thick with lust, and love, and unbearable happiness, “and all my nights to come.”


End file.
